


the depths of bitter exultation

by jaimeykay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-10 20:10:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimeykay/pseuds/jaimeykay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After absorbing the souls from purgatory, Castiel dream-walks in Dean's head, determined to gain Dean's love and respect. Caught between dreams of his mother, hell, and the Cas he used to know promising to get Dean out, Dean wonders how long he can hold out, even with Sam and Bobby's resolve to find the solution. But Castiel knows all of Dean's weaknesses – and how to use them against him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the depths of bitter exultation

_The park smells like honeysuckle._

Dean stares up into the trees. They're just changing color, as if someone took a paintbrush to them and swirled yellow and red and green. He tried that with his own crayons but it didn't look the same. Daddy looked at his picture and gave him a nod (his eyes crinkled at the corners and his mouth looked funny), but Mom pushed him away and told Dean that his picture was very nice and he should be proud of it. Dean scrunched up his nose and said he could do better and he saw Daddy smile. Maybe tonight if he goes home and Mom isn't too mad he can try again.

He swings his legs as he sits on the bench. Mrs. Milborne said he couldn't get up from there, but that's stupid, because she's not his mom. She's Jake's mom, and she can only tell Jake what to do.

Jake's stupid, anyway.

"All right, mister. Tell me why Mrs. Milborne had to call me to come get you."

His mom is here now. Her hair is in a ponytail today. It's pretty. Mom's always pretty. She wears a dark blue jacket, almost like his. But he's wearing a hat, and she isn't. He's supposed to get colder easier because he's small but she's not wearing one so he doesn't get why he has to. Daddy stuck it on his head anyway. Tugged it down over his eyes so he couldn't see. Dean laughed and pulled it up and scrunched up his nose.

"Dean. What did you do?"

Dean shrugs. "Dunno."

"Uh uh. Up. I heard you called Jake a mean name."

"He pushed Trevor off the swing. He _was_ mean."

"That may be, but you can't call him names."

"Why? He is a butthead."

Mom's mouth twitches. "You have to watch what you say, pumpkin. It's not nice, and I don't want you to get in trouble."

"But –"

"Nope. You're in enough trouble as it is, buster. You wanna make it worse?"

Dean sticks out his tongue; Mom jabs at it. "Put that back in your mouth!"

He licks her finger.

"Ew," she wipes it on his jacket, shaking her head. "All right, up. We're going home."

"But I don't want to." The park is nice. It is a little cold, but he doesn't care. Plus, he hasn't gotten a chance to go on the see-saw yet. Maybe Mom will do it with him. He says so, but she just gives him that look when he doesn't change into his pajamas on time.

"Maybe we can go on the see-saw on a day when you don't call someone a name."

Dean shrugs his shoulders, and Mom reaches over, taps his lips.

"I mean it. You can really hurt people with your words. You have to listen to me. Do what I say. Understand?"

"But –"

"Be quiet. I know what's best for you. You'll see." She blows out a breath and leans over, running a hand through his hair. "You're my baby, and I don't want you to get hurt, okay? And you won't have to, if you come with me."

Dean leans away from her. Mom doesn't look so pretty anymore; she's smiling but her eyes are narrow. Piercing. She breathes out smoke, her face pale, eyes bluer.

_"Don't you want to be with me?"_

Dean opens his eyes.

The sweet smell of honey is gone, replaced by the musk of old books, dirty furniture. The air feels heavier, harder to breathe. He looks around carefully, as if she's still there, watching him. Waiting for her to follow wherever she wants him to go.

He's being stupid. 

There's a push to his bicep. It feels as if someone's been at it for quite some time: his arm is sore. "Are you awake now?"

Bobby.

"Yeah," Dean mumbles. He rolls over, his stomach protesting the move. Blinking the image of his mother away, he takes a breath. It's been years since she creeped into his dreams. "'M awake. Time's it?"

"Almost two. It's been a long – well, a long one." Bobby takes his cap off, smoothes down his hair. It doesn't do much good for his bloodshot eyes or drawn mouth. "You want something to drink?"

Dean runs his tongue along his teeth, trying to get rid of the gritty feeling. "Uh, yeah. Thanks. You got beer?"

Bobby frowns. "I've got water."

Dean shrugs and takes it, trying to subtly crane his neck and see if his bottle of whiskey is still on the kitchen table. Eh, he'll get it later. He's gonna need it.

Bobby fills a cup of ice and sloshes some water in it. The ice disappears, melted away by the heat of the water from Bobby's tap - it's never quite worked right. He throws the glass back but it barely makes a dent, it's empty, just empty. He needs more, he needs -

"Figured I'd wait for you to wake up properly before we talked about the next step."

Dean rolls the glass between his fingers. "Next step?"

Bobby gives a weak shrug. "About Cas. He let us go, but I can't see things staying that way for long. We need to figure out a game plan." He averts his eyes, as if he has a suggestion or two or twelve, but doesn't want to offer them. 

Dean's chest tightens. Just another spell, another body swallowed up by flame, wings burned into pavement like an angry afterthought. 

"Yeah," is all he can offer.

Bobby falters. "We'll figure it out. We'll find something, we always have." He gives a crooked smile, the one that graces his lips that means _we're fucked but let's roll_ , the one that showed up when he cocked that shotgun in Dad's direction. Weary, forced perhaps, but there nonetheless.

Dean nods and drains the rest of his glass. "Sam?"

"Upstairs," Bobby gestures. "Started off doing some reading, but he was asleep last I checked."

"He doing okay?"

"Hasn't spoken much, but he seems all right. Says he is, anyway."

"'Course he does. Doesn't mean shit."

"He's a strong kid," Bobby says, taking Dean's empty glass and making a questioning motion for a refill. Dean shakes his head.

"What's he reading?"

"Looking up some research," Bobby says, shaking his head. "'bout Cas. Not sure I see the point, I dunno what he expects to find. This is unprecedented, even for us."

Dean's way too tired for this conversation. He lets his eyes fall shut again, but all he can see is Sam out on the cot, Castiel smiling at them, a condescending curl to his lips. 

"Let me think," he yawns. "I gotta - I need a minute."

"Okay," he hears Bobby say slowly. "I'll be here when -"

Dean doesn't hear the rest.

_His mother isn't here this time, but Dean is grateful: he never wants to picture her here, not ever._

When he first arrived - ha, arrived, rather than clawed to death and thrown down for what felt like years - Dean expected the smell of sulfur. Ashes, flames, the smoke dancing at his lips, quietly asking for entrance but slipping in nonetheless.

No sulfur. Copper. Cooked pork, which causes him to salivate, imagining it melting on his tongue. After thirty years, when all you've eaten is muscle and sinew and _ah, it's stuck between your teeth, hold still_ \- he can hardly be blamed for drooling.

"Dice it up nice and pretty, and maybe you'll get a beautiful cut," he says. He, who never leaves him, whose presence is both terrifying and strangely comforting. "Look at how he squirms under your touch."

There's touch here, too, and it's soft like his mother's. Except for the fact that fingertips drift along his sides and whisper promises of pain.

The knife is heavy in his hand, the blade sizzling, and now he smells burning, like leather tanning over a flame.

"He bleats like a sheep," Alastair laughs. "He's of no use to me. To us. Leave him as a skeleton, crooked and shamed, until even the dogs tire of gnawing on his bones."

Still, Dean hesitates, even as the damned soul begs for mercy, begs that _please, I can do better, let me show you_ \- and it's an eternity upon eternity before there's a slice to Dean's neck and pain, pain he's used to, softly simmering under the surface.

It brings him back to awareness. Dean takes a breath, closes his eyes. He's gotten better at pulling away from these dreams, telling himself they aren't real, this is nothing, but he's wrong, he's been here, and it feels just as real is it did then.

It's easier to let it go. Let it pass. Sometimes it's better to pretend that it isn't a dream.

"Do it," Alastair says. "I know you can. I believe in you. You don't need me to hold your hand. Not anymore."

"Interesting," Dean hears, and suddenly everything around him freezes, the soul's mouth is open in mid plea, Alastair's breath no longer hot on his shoulder. "This is what you dream about?"

Dean doesn't recognize this one at first; this one is all hands, eyes: shining like topaz. Wheels spin in slow circles, almost hypnotizing. He's somehow sitting in midair, a small quirk to his lips.

"What -"

"You don't recognize me?" the creature says. "This is how we first met, remember?"

Dean blinks and remembers flying, searing pain on his bicep, _close your eyes_ , his eardrums are going to explode, his insides so compressed that they have to give out - then nothing. 

Dean grips the knife tighter.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to talk. We can talk, can't we?" Castiel hops down and walks around Dean in a circle, peering at the soul. He tsks. "Poor thing."

Dean remains still, only hearing the sound of his blood pumping. Nobody else is supposed to be here, nobody else is supposed to _see_ this. "I've sunk to a new low if I'm dreaming about you."

Castiel's eyes change color: the pupils drinking away the topaz. "It's not a dream."

"You have no right being here," Dean spits. The blood runs cold on his hands.

"Funny, I didn't hear you saying that when I asked for your help when you were fishing." Castiel's smile turns coy, revealing rows of teeth with sharp edges. "Or when we -"

"That was different," Dean interrupts. "This is - you know not to come here. You fucking promised. But I guess you're not you anymore, so it doesn't count, right?"

"Oh, it's me," Castiel says, his wings fanning out and his razor blades clinking together. Ice gathers at the tips. "But things change."

"Then what are you doing here," Dean grits his teeth. "Figured you would be done with the dream-walking now that you've got God stuff to do. Heal any lepers lately?"

Castiel smiles and doesn't answer the question. "You retreat to this place - this is where you go, out of all the places you could choose, and bring me along with you."

"I didn't _choose_ anything -"

"But you did," Castiel says. "The you that lingers below that pathetic little facade of yours." He hums again. "I remember when I first met you here."

He lays a thumb on the plain of Dean's cheek. "Your eyes. There wasn't much color left to them." Fingertips lightly graze his face, trailing down, tracing his lips. "Your teeth. Some sharp. Pitted. But not all. And you know what? I still thought you were beautiful. One of my father's creations."

Another smile. "One of my creations. I rebuilt you, piece by piece. Put your stuffing back where it belonged. Removed your scars, stitched up your flesh. Without me, you wouldn't exist."

Dean bares his teeth and pulls away. "I'm not your anything."

"You are," Castiel lifts a shoulder. "And you could be more. I'm giving you an opportunity, just between you and me. I thought it would be wise to approach you in this manner. Like old times, perhaps. You respond well to consistency. Dislike change. A pity, because if you accept, things will be much better for you."

"Fuck off."

"Hold your tongue," Castiel says without any heat. "I don't want to have to take it from you."

Dean makes a tiny movement to raise the knife, but stops when Castiel's eyes drift down. Dean forces himself to relax his hold. It's not a threat. Not yet.

Castiel stares at Dean's hand for a moment before he lets his gaze linger back up to Dean's face. He takes his time and moves closer - Dean's ready, he clutches the knife, but when Castiel takes Dean's wrist in his hand and pulls at Dean's fingers, Dean can't stop the knife slipping from his grasp. There's no resulting clang; the abyss swallows it up without a sound. The knife belongs to it, is its rightful owner. _You're only allowed to use it, Dean, because it lets you._

Hell echoes a laugh all around them. For once, the souls are quiet in their chains, like limp mannequins. Eyes wide, staring just a few inches in the wrong direction, mouths gaping open. Dean understands how they feel.

"I could take these memories from you," Castiel says. "You'd never dream about this again. Never think of it again." He releases Dean's wrist, sets his hand on Dean's hip, fingers digging in slightly. Normally Cas's touch is cool, but now it burns. "Wouldn't you like that?"

"Don't touch me," Dean says lowly, but his feet are planted, immovable.

"Never again," Castiel repeats. He leans in close. "Or every night. Your choice."

Dean pushes him away; the loss of touch causes his blood to run cold.

Castiel shakes his head, eyes soft. "You'll change your mind," he says. "You said yes once before. You can't do this alone. You need me."

"Yes to what?" Dean wants to say, but he blinks awake; the ceiling mocks him. _Soon,_ the tiles say. 

_You said yes once before._

Yeah, well, it's too bad for Castiel, because Dean's done saying yes. 

He forces himself to sit up, the springs of Bobby's couch poking him in the small of his back. Even after all these years of taking his weight, the couch refuses to comfortably form to his body.

Fuckin' traitor.

He finds Sam, curled up on a chair, face drawn and exhausted, even in sleep. Heads to the kitchen. Starts to make a sandwich, but tosses that aside and instead hits the bottle that, thank fuck, has remained untouched on the table. The first gulp burns, but not the second. Or third. Or fourth. The alcohol soothes his blood and he relaxes in the chair, feeling more stable now. Balanced.

Another gulp.

Swishes the liquid around. 

It's amusing to even think about the possibility of a next step. He can't remember how long it's been since they've attempted a plan that involves steps. For the past four years, it's been them on their toes, living by the moment, and he's almost forgotten what it's like beyond that. Even with Lisa he lived by the moment, afraid that once he did consider the idea of another day, once he was settled in enough _to_ plan, it would be over.

Guess it didn't matter, anyway.

He should be angry. Angry that Cas didn't tell him everything, that Cas didn't trust him, that he used Sam against him. He's never quite let himself be angry about much in his life. It was easier not to be. Easier to be angry at himself than anyone else.

But all he can feel is nothing.

Bobby's faucet drips, each _plink_ of water getting louder and louder. Dean looks over at the counter, feeling crowded -

[ _show me some respect, I dragged you out -_ ]

Maybe tomorrow he'll have a clearer head to think it over. Maybe tomorrow things will look better. Maybe tomorrow -

_Dean smells soot._

Old, damp. He tries to sit up, hits his head. He feels all around him: he's contained, trapped, boxed in like Sam's old soccer trophies. 

It's pointless, he can sense it, but he tentatively calls out for Sam anyway, a whisper that echoes around this container and etches into his skin: _nobody can hear you._

Dean takes a breath, holds it in for as long as he can, counts beats in his head. He doesn't remember, can't remember, refuses to remember. What matters is he is here, and Sam isn't, and he doesn't know where he is or who he is anymore.

Shudders, he kicks: a crack, the whisper of dirt, the promise of a lonely death. No, fuck that, this is one more trick, this is nothing, he can fend for himself, he doesn't need help, just another kick, another, there's air, just keep going -

Suddenly, a tight grip around him, whispers in his hair, platitudes of reassurance that he breathes in and holds close. A slam, a gust of wind, a whisper _hold on_ and he shudders with déjà vu but obeys, holds tight, keeps his eyes shut tight -

Now, there's a soft whir above his head, cool air blowing on his face, but it doesn't remove the stuffiness, the claustrophobic feel, the taste of recycled stale air. He opens his eyes, glances around. Bo Derek sits on the wall, and he smells whiskey.

It's the panic room.

He dreamed about this place once before. Nothing concrete; only blips of memory. The feel of the thin cot and how the springs poked through. Screams - his or Sam's, he couldn't quite tell. Eyes watching, determined. The feel of fists slamming against his face, the thump of his back hitting a wall. The sound of -

"Dean."

He jumps, hand flying to his side, automatically reaching for something that isn't there. 

It's Castiel, but not the one from before. His trench coat is gone, tie loosened and hair disheveled. His face is covered in scratches, face pale, lips bloody. He's chained to the cot, and Dean remembers back when that was him, when that was Sam. Cas's eyes are sunk into his face but he manages a relieved smile.

"It's all right," Cas says, voice low and soft. "It's me."

Dean presses a hand against his chest, taking deep breaths. The smell of dirt lingers still. "What the fuck? Why – how are you –"

"I tried to get you away sooner," Cas says. He frowns. "I didn't know you still dreamed about that. You never mentioned it."

"It's not a big deal." Dean ignores the feel of tiny legs crawling all over his skin. "I appreciate it and all, but forgive me if I don't believe that this is you."

Cas remains still, as if any further movement would send Dean running. He's not completely wrong. Too bad there's nowhere to go.

"Being cautious is a good trait," Cas says, as if Dean hasn't spent his whole life looking over his shoulder. Dean lets himself lean against the wall, taking a moment to catch his breath. "I can't prove that it's me. I can only ask for your trust."

Dean watches him carefully, for any sign that proves he's not _Cas_ , but there's nothing. Dean wants to believe. It's easier to believe. 

"I only get a few moments," Cas says, then juts out his jaw. "They're strong, as you know."

"The souls, yeah. I know." Dean's too tired to laugh. Too tired to argue. "You look like shit."

Cas looks at his torn sleeves, at his chained wrists. "I realize that," is all he says.

Dean frowns and investigates them. They hold taut, pinching skin white. Cas stills and lets Dean tug at them, but his posture gives off waves of annoyance.

"Jesus," Dean mutters. "So – what, they're holding you hostage?"

"Yes."

"…in Bobby's panic room."

Cas rattles the handcuffs. "Maybe. I believe you created it yourself, but the metaphor remains."

"Yeah, you guys all sound alike," Dean says under his breath. "What the hell is going on?"

Cas's position makes his attempt to shrug impossible. "I don't know. I can only gather little pieces of information at a time." He rattles the cuffs again. "They keep me unaware for the most part."

Dean sinks into the chair across from the cot and sighs. 

"Dean," Cas begins. "I'm sorry. I -"

Dean shakes his head. He's not in the mood. "We can talk about that later. We need to figure out how to bust you out first. You don't have any ideas?"

"Nothing concrete. I need time." Cas gives one final tug at the cuffs. "How - how are you? How is Sam?"

Dean barks out a laugh. "How do you think he is?"

Cas licks his lips; Dean watches the motion and blinks. Any other time that would be enough to get him to launch on Cas, drink up his taste. "Dean -" Cas starts again.

"We're holed up at Bobby's for now. They've been doing research on how to - well. Stop you."

Cas nods. "Good, that's good. And you? You haven't been?"

"Been sleeping a lot."

Cas frowns. "Bad dreams?"

"Yeah."

"About what?"

Dean averts his eyes. 

[The Cas wearing your face, eyes and nose lined up in the perfect place but it's not _your_ face, it's not your touch, not your -]

Cas forms an expression of understanding, then gives a shallow breath. "Oh. He's not - he's not -?"

"No." Not yet.

Cas nods and gives a weak smile, relief dancing briefly on his face. "What _is_ he doing?"

"Doesn't matter," Dean mutters. "Look, do you have any idea how long it could take you to get out of this?"

"I'm not sure," Cas says. "but I'll get you out of this. I -"

\- don't like this."

Dean blinks awake but it takes more effort this time, more difficult to detach himself. "Uh?"

Bobby's face swims into awareness. "You're sleeping. A lot. You fell asleep slumped over at the kitchen table." He frowns, disapproving. "Somehow without knocking over your whiskey."

Dean groans: he drooled all over himself, and he has to make an effort to unstick his cheek from the table. "Shit." He stares at the kitchen table, runs a finger over the wood. The touch is comforting. Real.

"What's going on?"

"I dunno, I'm losing it?" Dean clears his throat, rubbing his eyes. Fuck it: takes a drink. He mourns at the sight of the emptying bottle. 

_I'll get you out of this._

Dean's mind is a fucked up place. He's used to it, has come up with certain...methods to deal with it. But this is different. Maybe he really is losing it. Maybe he is so pathetic to dream that Cas will fix this.

Sam tsks to the side of him and Dean starts; he almost forgot about Sam, who's still pale, dark eyes, drawn. "And you don't look like you're sleeping at all," Dean tells him. "Are you - are you okay?"

Sam lifts a shoulder in response. "Fine. I'm not tired, I _guess_."

"Well, aren't you two a pair," Bobby mutters, knees creaking as he stands. He adjusts his cap. "Go sit in the living room. I'm gonna make you something to eat, and you're both gonna eat it, understand?"

Dean raises an eyebrow at him. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

Bobby nods and gives Sam a significant look that is anything but subtle. Sam's gaze drifts downward before he stands up, takes Dean's arm and leads him to the living room. 

"The hell's that about?" Dean sits in one corner of the couch, yawning. His vision is still a bit blurry and he tries to blink Sam into focus.

"Bobby's – concerned. About you. I told him it was normal, though. Your sleeping."

Dean feels like he's one step behind. "Huh?"

"You sleep a lot. After something bad happens. You slept a lot when you got back –"

"It's fine," Dean cuts him off. Hesitates. He doesn't want to put anything more on Sam that he already has. "Just weird dreams, I guess."

To Dean's surprise, Sam looks hopeful. "Yeah? Like what?"

Dean shrugs and makes a face, ruing that he didn't bring the bottle with him.

" _What?_ " 

Sam looks so despondent, so in need of even the smallest answer that Dean can't help letting a "Cas" slip out.

Sam frowns, his eyes taking on a pitying gaze. "Dean –"

"It's crazy, I know," Dean says. He rubs his mouth. "You're gonna think _I'm_ crazy."

Sam gives him a wry smile. "Try me."

Dean steels himself and heads into the kitchen to grab the bottle from the table, Bobby turning away and Sam shaking his head. Dean ignores them both and takes a swig. He hopes that he can duck into the bathroom and take some happy pills; he's starting to get a little shaky, and it shows. 

_A laugh. "It's all about the dopamine, man. This shit helps it party in your synapses like you wouldn't believe."_

_"Spare me the science lesson and fork it over."_

Sam takes the bottle out of his trembling hand and sets it behind him. 

"What's going on with these dreams?"

Dean shakes his head. "'S probably nothing."

Sam's eyebrows narrow. "No, it's not. You're rattled, man. Give me some credit and tell me. Please."

Sam needs any semblance of control, just like Dean does.

Dean sighs. "I see Cas. Both of them."

"Both?"

"Yeah. The new wacko who thinks he's God, and. The other one."

"Our Cas."

Dean shrugs. 

Sam bites his lip. "Oh."

"Told you that I'm crazy."

"You're not crazy," Sam insists. "It's normal, you know. I know you like to pretend you're above all that, but you're not. Dreaming about this - it doesn't make you crazy. It makes you human."

"Deep." 

If only.

Sam scoffs. "Point is, don't overthink it. Accept that it's okay to react to things. This can be one of the manifestations."

"Thank you, Doctor Freud."

"Do you ever stop, man? Stupid question, I know. But can you just turn it off? We don't really need this right now." Sam clasps his hands together. Guess he's going with the tough love approach. 

Probably a good idea. 

"Although," Sam bites his lip. "Are you sure they're just dreams? Are you sure that he's not dream-walking? He's done it with you before, I know."

Dean looks at Sam's pale face and swallows. "They're just dreams."

Sam eyes him for a moment, forehead creased in thought. "I've been doing some reading," he finally says. "Can't say I've found anything, but there's gotta be something out there. We'll figure this out."

"Seems like everyone's saying that these days." Dean rubs his face.

Sam's eyebrows fly up. "Are you going to fall asleep again?"

Dean blinks. And blinks. His eyes feel heavy, body sluggish. "Uh. Maybe?"

Sam stands up, and he looks concerned for some reason. "Hey, don't. Stay awake, okay? Hey –"

_Dean smells cooked pork. This time, it's him._

He doesn't even blink. He's been here so many times it doesn't even fucking matter anymore. He's been here longer than he has anywhere else. Might as well settle in till it's over.

"This isn't your mind fucking with you. This is _me_ fucking with you. It will serve you well to remember that."

Dean rolls his head and sees a trench coat. Clean, straight hair. Skin free of blood and blisters.

Jesus.

"Now, this is what you should be dreaming about," Castiel nods in approval. "This looks terrible. There's more outside of you than in." He picks up some entrails and wrinkles his nose.

Blood gurgles out of Dean's mouth as he tries to speak, but Castiel gets the point.

"I won't, thank you," Castiel says, opening Dean's stomach and setting the pieces of intestine back inside. "This really isn't too bad, compared to the laundry list of things they did. And I know each and every one. Shame. If it were me, back then? I could have stopped it. All of this pain. This suffering."

He reaches up and grazes a hand past Dean's mouth, rebuilding teeth and replacing his tongue. "I wouldn't have disappeared like Him. I could have saved you."

"Right," Dean spits blood – and bits of metal – out. "Think you're being funny?"

"I don't know. Are you laughing?"

"Ha."

Castiel runs a thumb along Dean's bottom lip. Dean tastes his own blood. A familiar taste. "Do you want to know what God did when He heard you? What He said?"

"Not really," Dean says, careful of Castiel's thumb.

"It may be too early for that," Castiel says to himself. Sets his hands on Dean's hips. "I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to have to tell you these things, but I need you to understand the full picture. I know it's hard for your little brain to comprehend, but I'm willing to wait."

"Poor me, I guess. Willing to wait for _what_?"

Castiel releases him and steps away. "Willing to wait for you to choose to serve me," he says, perusing Alastair's tools.

"Don't touch those, Alastair will get mad," Dean says.

Castiel doesn't look his way: his lips turn up at the corners. "Alastair and I have an arrangement of sorts."

"That's interesting, considering he's _dead_."

"Is he?" Castiel runs a finger over a needle, Dean's blood dried at the tip. He holds it up in the light, inspecting it. Steps back toward Dean and uses the needle to trace Dean's bottom lip. "He seems very much alive here, doesn't he? Do people ever truly die?"

"I'm going to make sure you find that out," Dean says through his teeth.

"So you say," Castiel smiles, lifting away the needle. "You know, it'll be a lot easier once you come around. You'll see how ridiculous you're acting."

" _I'm_ acting ridiculous?"

"Your mother wouldn't have wanted this for you."

"Don't you fucking talk about her. Don't you fucking dare talk about what she would have wanted."

Castiel hums. "I know she would have wanted the best for you. I know she would want you to be safe. Protected. I can offer you that."

Dean rolls his head around. "You've gotta be real. Even my fucked up mind wouldn't make this up."

"I want you to understand," Castiel says. "It wouldn't be like what you expect."

"You're delusional if you expect that we're going to go skipping through a meadow while I make googly eyes at you."

"I don't want your googly eyes," Castiel says. "I want your respect. I want you to see how much better things would be after you choose me. That's all my Father ever really wanted. To be chosen. To have complete faith in Him, in His plans, in His words. And I ask the same from you."

Dean shuts his eyes. Castiel's hand trails across the bridge of Dean's nose. It's a familiar touch here, but not from this stranger: it's heavier. More possessive. 

"You used to trust me. I ask for that again."

Dean's eyes pop open. "It wasn't you I trusted."

Castiel laughs. "I know you don't want to admit it, but it's still me. I understand it's easier to separate us, but once you realize we're not any different, I think you'll come to terms."

Dean keeps his eyes closed. Castiel presses his lips to the apple of his cheek. "It's all right. I know. You can wake up now."

When Dean pries his eyes open, he hears snoring. 

Sam's collapsed into an armchair, arms and legs akimbo, face more relaxed in sleep this time around. Dean holds his breath, not wanting to wake him. He hopes that at least someone is getting some peaceful sleep. Sam's hand clenches.

Yeah, right.

His stomach rumbles. He wonders how much time has past since - well. He blinks at his watch: 11pm, which tells him nothing. Living on whiskey for the past few days hasn't done him any good.

When Dean passes by Sam, Dean has to kneel down and touch Sam's wrist, just to be sure. 

_Okay._ Still there. Dean blows out a breath.

True to form, Bobby's kitchen offers cereal, old pancake mix, chips long past their expiration date, and some linguine. Further searching offers spaghetti sauce, and he sets about boiling some pasta.

It's been years since he's had spaghetti, and that may be one of the most depressing thoughts he's ever had. 

It's also pathetic to think that the only two people he can really talk to in the world are in the house with him. Lisa and Ben are gone forever. He hasn't been able to talk to them like that for a while anyway, but now it's official. Permanent. 

Dean knows they haven't had many friends, many allies - but now it seems more obvious than ever. He thumbs out his phone anyway, scrolls through the contact list. He's got a lot of numbers he needs to delete.

A wave of exhaustion slams over Dean again, legs about to give out, and he has the presence of mind to throw a hand out and turn off the burner. He grabs the counter, sending the box of linguine tumbling to the floor and scattering. 

Dean wants to call out for Bobby - _Sam - sam sam sam I'd love it if you could show up now. Now -_

_Now, the park is green._

Hot. Dean pulls his t-shirt away from his chest, making a face. Mom looked sad when he pulled on his Led Zeppelin shirt this morning, but she shook her head and took his hand.

"I like it," she said when he asked her what was wrong. But her eyes looked wet. All she needs is the see-saw, and she'll feel better.

People stare at them when they arrive, Mom clearing her throat beside him. He stares right back even though Mom said it's rude. _They're_ doing it first. They look away when he makes eye contact with them. Good.

As they walk through the park, he hears people talking quietly. "Guess it's not a fairy tale marriage after all," one woman whispers, and Mom tightens her grip on Dean's hand and walks faster.

"It's okay," Dean says when they walk past. "Daddy will come back."

Mom doesn't answer him, just gives a smile, one that doesn't light up her eyes like normal, and she scoops him up and places him on the swing. He laughs as she pushes him, her touch careful on the small of his back.

"Not too far," she calls when Dean leans back in his swing to watch the sky. "I don't want you to get hurt."

He pouts but obeys, straightening up. 

He's content in letting her push him, and she stays quiet, too. After a while, her pushes get lazier, and he uses his legs to propel himself faster.

"Don't go too fast, you'll flip over."

Dean stops propelling; that's not his mother. He's suddenly too big for the swing and he eases out, dropping on the ground. Led Zeppelin is still stretched across his chest, but tighter than he remembers.

"Thanks for enlarging the shirt, man. Really appreciate it."

Castiel's grin is feral. "You could be naked."

Dean makes a face.

"You're so _prude,_ " Castiel chides. "It's not anything I haven't seen already."

"Why the fuck do you care, huh? Why the fuck are you _here_?"

Castiel examines his fingernails. "Do you want to know what I did today?"

Dean swallows. "Not really."

"I cleansed the rest of my former garrison. Those who stood against me during the apocalypse. Their sniveling cries for mercy came too late. Useless. Such fools, but things are on the right path now. I will cleanse all of Heaven until those that remain are the ones loyal to me."

"And what then?"

Castiel's gaze turns soft. "Then everyone else. It's your choice if you'd like to be a part of it or not."

"You keep reminding me," Dean mutters. "But you've yet to tell me why."

Castiel takes a step toward him, and Dean is prepared to match him in reverse, but he's stuck. He glares.

Castiel lays his forehead against Dean's. "What is it about your mouth, your words, that make you feel better? Who are you without them? What would happen if I took them from you?"

"Who are you, Ursula?"

Castiel laughs, his breath hot on Dean's lips. Dean finds himself parting them automatically, and they stand still for a moment, Castiel's eyes drifting all over Dean's face, drinking him in. Hands on the small of Dean's back, Castiel's chest heaving against his own, and the heat of the park doubles, until he's sweating, suffocating, Castiel stealing breath from him one at a time. Dean grabs Castiel's shoulders - to do what, he doesn't know - but Castiel pushes his hands away, holds them still by Dean's sides.

Dean hears the _you're not allowed to touch me_ loud and clear.

Castiel's lips touch Dean's lightly, and it feels so much like Cas that Dean closes his eyes. For a moment, he checks out. Feels Castiel let go of his wrists and wrap hands around Dean's neck, pressing alongside his jugular and humming into Dean's mouth. Pulls him closer, flush against Castiel's chest.

Dean can only stand still as Castiel examines him with his mouth, teeth nipping along Dean's neck. An inhale - a chuckle. The bites get harder; Castiel sucks Dean's skin into his mouth until Dean winces. Reminds him of Emma Kennedy - she was a biter, left marks all over his body, and when Sam saw his chest when he was getting dressed, his mouth dropped open. It was -

A hand to his temple: "Don't you think about her. Don't you think about anyone else."

Dean blinks, and it's gone. He's back on the swing, swaying slowly, but he has no energy to move, nothing to offer. He hears Castiel speaking but it's only chatter, useless words that disappear into the wind. Suddenly he feels sick, suddenly he really wants to wake up, really wants to leave. He wants Cas, the other Cas, the one with soft eyes and a comforting touch and _don't worry, I'm going to get you out of this_ but all there is is this clone. It's Sam without his soul all over again, a stranger watching him with familiar eyes. 

He jerks when Castiel's hand finds his hair in a parody of comforting motion, and when he concentrates he hears Castiel singing.

Dean can only hear his mother's voice.

He pulls away, Castiel's fingers tugging on his hair. 

"Fuck off."

"Watch your tongue," Castiel says again, a hint of anger lingering on the surface. He flexes his fingers by his sides. "Speaking is a privilege, not a right."

"Sorry, sir," Dean mutters sarcastically. "I'll watch what I say from now on."

Castiel narrows his eyes, and the wind picks up; ice starts to form on the tree branches above them. Blades emerge from Castiel's back, clinking behind his back, and Dean's breath catches in his chest. 

"Sorry," Dean repeats, evening out his tone carefully. Castiel kneels in front of him and lifts up Dean's jaw, turning it from side to side. What he's looking for, Dean has no idea. Apparently satisfied, Castiel lets go, resting his hands on Dean's thighs. 

"If you agree to serve me, you will be my mouthpiece," Castiel murmurs. "Even gods need prophets."

"You want me to sing your praises?"

"I recreated you," Castiel says thoughtfully. "Now, I can perfect you. As a sign of mercy and a reward."

Dean scoffs. "Perfect me? I've never had complaints before. Oh, and I know you think you cleaned me up nice and good, but you missed a scar."

Castiel's smile is wolfish. "That one stays."

It burns on Dean's shoulder.

"I asked you before if you wanted to know what God said when He heard your cries in Hell. Let me show you."

He reaches out a hand, and Dean tries to dance away, but those fingers rest on his temples nonetheless.

[ White. White so blinding Dean's sure it melts his retinas like ice on a blacktop in Arizona. Voices all around him, in his ears, his lungs, his _eyes._ They seem to swell from within him, from his very soul.

"loud, so very loud -"

"willing to take bets?"

"- he's going much longer than I thought he would, well done, boy -"

"- means we have to wait longer, Father."

"yes, but he'll be stronger, more fortified. more prepared for my son. let him go, it will serve him well to become accustomed to pain." 

"- the others, they're getting close. they may find him before he says yes -"

"they won't."

"but -"

" _they won't."_ ]

"I'm sorry."

Dean blinks.

"Don't you see? God let you break. He watched you like a baseball game. He _wanted_ you to give in. It would be different with me, see?" 

[ " _beautiful work, brother._ "

a flash - a jump - a breath -

 _colors._ trees stretched out to the sky, flowers swaying in the breeze.

"He speaks to you," a woman says to Dean, an eager look in her eyes. "Do you understand how blessed you are? That He has chosen you?"

"Speaks -"

"God," she persists. "You are special, brother. You speak His words. They are holy, keep them safe -"]

Dean pushes Castiel away, breaking the connection. "You have got to be kidding me," Dean says, dumbfounded.

"You refuse to see what I have to offer you," Castiel shakes his head, mouth turned down in disappointment. "Come, let me -"

The swing disappears underneath him, and there's a moment of free-fall, where he knows he's going to hit the ground - but he's caught. Color fades away, until all that remains is gray, the whoosh of a fan, the flicker of lights. 

"- okay?"

The arms holding him shake but hold him steady. Dean gives himself a moment to get himself together before he eases out of the grip. He scoots back a few feet, his limbs unwilling to take him any further.

"Cas?" he mumbles.

A soft touch to his face is answer enough. Dean grabs his wrist anyway. Holds on for a moment. 

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," Cas says, his voice low. "You, on the other hand -"

"I'm good," Dean insists, and it's one step at a time, like it's always been. Getting to his feet is enough for now.

"You look terrible."

Cas's hands land on Dean's shoulders, and Dean starts. "You got out of the cuffs."

Cas nods. "Little at a time," he says. "Now I have to get this door open." He steps back and examines it, expert eyes starting from top to bottom. Sighing, he turns away. "You need to sit down."

"I'm fine."

"Dean, please."

Cas's voice sounds so much like Sam that Dean finds himself sinking onto the cot. His legs thank him.

"What now?" Dean asks.

Cas shrugs, such a human gesture that Dean wonders what has been happening to him while he's been stuck here. "Tell me about him." 

Dean frowns. "Your clone on speed?"

Cas nods and sits on the cot on the cot next to Dean. His hands stray about, as if he doesn't know what to do with them. His wrists are still red, bits of skin peeling away, skin rubbed raw.

"I don't really know."

Cas raises an eyebrow. "You don't know?"

"I dunno, you should hear him speak, man. It's all riddles and bullshit."

"He hasn't once told you why he's been dream-walking in your head."

Dean swallows and turns away. "He wants me to serve him, okay?" He digs his fingernails into the denim of his jeans. "He joked about being his prophet. I think. It's fucked up. I mean, me, a prophet? I thought the whole righteous man bullshit was a stretch."

"Serve," Cas says thoughtfully. A small, disbelieving smile dances on his lips. "What did you say?"

"You kidding? I've been telling him to fuck off." 

Cas nods to himself, his hand making a reflexive jerk by Dean's thigh. "I bet he doesn't like that."

"He thinks it's funny. Like he's got all the time in the world to wait." Dean pauses. "He said - he said that God or whoever -"

Cas frowns. "Said that God what?"

"That he watched me. In hell. Like it was no big deal and fucking waited. Like I was on the TGIF schedule."

Cas is already shaking his head. "No. No, I don't believe that. You shouldn't, either. You can't believe anything he says."

Cas shifts a hand through Dean's hair before letting it rest on the nape of Dean's neck, thumb rubbing in comforting circles. The touch is distinct enough from Castiel, just one removed layer, and Dean lets Cas tug him down until they're both lying back on the cot. There's hardly any space; Dean has to rest almost completely on top of Cas, but he trusts Cas to take the weight.

Not like there's anyone else around to see it anyway, and he needs it. 

"You're stronger than you think you are."

Dean shrugs into Cas's neck.

"No, really. You won't give in to him."

Dean breathes against Cas's collarbone; Cas shivers above him. "...I know. Why would you think I would?"

Cas's hand stills against the small of Dean's back. "I don't think you will. I'm just not so sure you believe it."

"Why, because I almost said yes to Michael? You think I'm that weak that -"

"I told you, _I_ don't believe anything." Cas links his hands around Dean's back. "But you think very little of yourself and your capabilities. You think you aren't very strong, that because of what happened to - what I did to Sam, that you have nothing left. Everyone you care about is slipping away from you."

"Not you, though." It's a question - he's confused, because why would Cas include everyone if he -

After a pause, Cas says, "Not me." He sighs. "I don't want you to get hurt."

Dean jerks and lifts his head up, grabbing Cas's forearms to steady himself. "What did you say?"

"I don't want you to get hurt?" Cas says slowly. His gaze is concerned. "Why, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Dean says, trying to steady his breath. "Nothing."

Cas nods, and Dean gives up, releasing Cas's arms. Cas presses his forehead against Dean's and just breathes.

"Trust me," Cas murmurs into Dean's mouth, sharing air. "I promise, I'll get you out of this."

"I –"

Cas cuts him off by covering Dean's mouth with his own, swallowing his words. "Don't talk," he whispers. "Just – just let me remember."

:::

When Dean was seventeen, Dad gave him the Impala. Dean was wary, waiting for the joke - Dad's sense of humor is seriously fucked up - but after a week, when none came, Dean tentatively walked outside. Sat on the hood. Took an extra moment before he laid back against the windshield, crossing his ankles.

It's his. Their home. _His._ It shouldn't matter that much, because Dad is still the one who usually drives her, and they always hunt together, but she feels different.

Whenever they stop at a motel, he spends the first night outside, washing her from tire to tire. Dad nods with approval while Sam rolls his eyes and snickers, but Dean tunes him out. It doesn't matter. 

As Dean cleans her windshield, someone takes the sponge out of his hand.

"No," Dean says dully. "Now that we've gotten that out of the way, can you let me finish washing my damn car?"

Castiel hands the sponge back. Folds his hands in front of him. "Go on."

Dean frowns and looks over the car. "All right, what did you do to it?" He takes a step back as if it's rigged to explode.

Castiel raises an eyebrow. "Your paranoia is astounding." He gestures. "Finish up. I can wait."

Dean tosses the sponge back in the bucket. "That's okay. I'm done."

"Don't wait on my account."

Dean picks up the bucket by the handle and heads to the motel. To his surprise, the door swings open, but the room is empty. No Dad sitting at the table and making notes in his journal, no Sam on the bed scrolling through channels. Only the sound of his own breathing and Castiel shutting the door behind them.

Dean turns around to say something - what, he doesn't have any idea - when there's a jab to his bicep. Dean winces and feels the area, but there's nothing.

Castiel makes a small noise in his throat. "He's trying so hard, isn't he?"

"Who?"

Castiel feels Dean's bicep for himself. "Your brother," he says, digging his finger into the muscle. "Poor boy. Still trying so hard even after all this. He lacks the patience I possess. It will be his downfall."

It's the first true reminder that there is a world outside of this one, reassuring that someone is looking out for him. "Good thing he's just as stubborn as you are, then."

Castiel edges Dean backward, until his knees hit the bed. His voice is low. "We'll have to wait and see, won't we?"

Then Dean is on his back.

After he tried to say yes to Michael, Dean was in this very spot. He stared at the ceiling as Cas's lips said _don't you do that again_ and _you scared me_ all over his skin in the shape of bites. It hurt. Bruises in the shape of fingertips roared in protest on his hips but Dean tilted his head back and closed his eyes. This was nothing. He could handle it.

(It's like that. It's a lot like that.)

"You're not giving up already, are you?" Castiel says. "Where's that fight you used to give me? I had to push you to find those boundaries, and you let me, just enough. You acted like you didn't want it because you were too afraid to ask. You thought I'd leave you. You think everyone leaves you."

Dean lets his silence speak for itself.

"I did leave you," Castiel acknowledges. "In a sense. I was disappointed, Dean. Disappointed that you put your faith in another angel. I couldn't look at you as I did before. But none of that matters now. It's in the past. I forgive you."

"You _forgive_ me?"

"You will be cleansed of all sins," Castiel says. "Taken from you as far as the east is from the west. Carry no guilt. On one condition. Tell me that condition."

"Get off me."

"Tell me the condition, Dean."

Castiel's weight is heavy enough to make Dean uncomfortable, but not overbearing. Castiel holds himself at the brink, one move away from full submersion; his fingers are locked around Dean's wrists but not so tightly that Dean couldn't pull away if he struggled enough.

Dean can't manage to give any.

"Tell me."

"Fuck off."

Now the grip tightens, and Dean swears his bones crunch in Castiel's hold. "Your pride will be the death of you."

"Then let it," Dean says, and that is what makes Castiel release him. Castiel's face is carefully blank, but there's a storm behind those eyes, and there's a moment where Dean is sure this is it, and he lets his eyes close in anticipation. An intake of breath:

_You can really hurt people with your words -_

"- the hell happened?"

Dean opens his eyes to poking at his wrists. He takes a swing, hears a muffled curse, and is held down. Someone breathes heavily above him, each breath carefully measured.

"You're not gonna punch me if I let you go, are you?"

"Depends," Dean mutters, but he relaxes. Just in case: "Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam says tiredly, as if he's been asked this question a dozen times already. "It's me. And Bobby's asleep."

Next question answered, Dean sits up. "Not, uh. Not going well?"

Sam throws him a look. "I'm trying," he says, as if it's all of this is Sam's fault. "I thought I was getting through last time, but I guess not."

Dean lifts up his sleeve to see his bicep. "I felt it," he says. "Here?"

Sam's face lights up, taking years off. "So we're getting somewhere!"

"Where is 'somewhere'? I felt a poke. That's not exactly a breakthrough." 

Sam's excitement slips off like water on a mirror. "Guess not," he says, and Dean's the biggest asshole in the world.

"No, you're right, it's something. Sorry, man. I'm just - tired."

Sam's gaze makes him look as old as Dean feels. "I know. But it shows that he's not impenetrable, you know? We can get in there somehow, we just have to figure it out." Sam pulls some books toward him and starts reading with renewed vigor.

Dean pokes them with his own fingers. They scream against his touch, torn skin catching on his fingernails. He doesn't think he wants to look in a mirror. "I need a shower," Dean mutters.

Sam doesn't even look up, just flips a page. "No."

Dean bristles. "If I want a damn shower, I'm getting a damn shower!"

"Not when you can't stay awake for more than two minutes," Sam says. "Would be embarrassing to hit your head and drown in a bathtub, wouldn't it?"

Dean blows out a breath, letting his arms drop down by his sides. They sit like leaden weights tugging him underwater.

"Sam -"

"I got this," Sam says, almost to himself. "I got this." He stops for a moment, takes a breath. "So what did you see? Just now?"

Dean runs a finger along his palm. "Doesn't matter."

Sam gnaws on his bottom lip. "Maybe they mean something, you know? The dreams. I mean, depending on the perspective you take about them, their significance could be a sign -"

"It's not."

Sam leans forward. "How do you know? Maybe if you talk about them, I can see if there's something you're missing."

Dean sighs. "I don't want to tell you about the inner-workings of my mind, okay? Can't we just figure out how to stop someone from going _in_?"

"Sure," Sam says. "That should be a walk in the park. Stop someone from going in. Why didn't I think of that?"

_Dean's palm is on fire._

He tries to pull his hand away, but Mom's grip is tight. "It's okay," she says, kissing his brow. "How about after we're done, I'll make you some soup, okay? Or we can make cookies, it's been a while since we've done that, huh?"

Dean shrugs. He doesn't need soup. Or cookies. He leans against her, laying his head on her shoulder. 

"I'll make you some soup," Mom says softly.

Mom wants to make soup. If she does, he guesses he can have some.

"Okay," Mom strokes his hair back. "Stay still, okay?"

The first poke _hurts_ , even worse than the knife did. She stills him, grabs his hand until he stops moving. 

"Few more, baby. That's all. It'll be all right."

Dean nods and bites on his bottom lip. He imagines the soup and how good it is and how it makes him feel better. Mom wouldn't lie. 

"This is why you can't play with knives, okay? You can hurt yourself, and I don't want to see you get hurt."

Dean grips her denim-covered knee. He's cold all of a sudden.

Mom hums under her breath as she keeps going, a song she normally sings as he falls asleep, but he doesn't feel any better. 

"We can count instead, if you like? One, two -"

" - Mary?"

Mom doesn't stop. "It's okay, John."

"Are you - what are you doing?" Daddy's voice goes higher. "Is he - bleeding?"

"I'm taking care of it," Mom says, and her voice sounds normal like it always does. "He's fine. Don't scare him."

Dean lifts his head off Mom's shoulder. Daddy stares at them and his eyes are big. His face is white.

"Mary," Daddy says, and his voice is lower again. "We have to take him to the doctor."

"We don't," Mom says. "It's only a little cut."

Daddy's mouth opens but no more words come out for a little while. "You're stitching his hand," he says finally. "Why - how do you know how -" 

"It's fine," Mom says again. "It'll be okay, right, baby?" 

Dean looks at Daddy, who looks at Mom, who looks at Dean. His bottom lip wobbles. "Um," he whispers, but -

"There we go. Dean? You awake? Hey. Come on, man."

Dean should know this voice, but he doesn't want to open his eyes. 

"Please. He's awake, right, Bobby? I'm not just - it's not me -"

"No, it's not just you. Hey, kid. Let's go, time to get up."

Dean forces his eyes open. He sees a beard and a baseball hat. Plaid. It takes a moment, but -

"Bobby."

Bobby's lips curl at the corners. "Yeah, buddy. You up now?"

"Don't - don't patronize me." 

Sam - Sam, brother, _Sam_ \- huffs a laugh. "Yeah, he's there. Can you sit up?"

Dean grunts, but allows Sam to pull him upright. Dean's hand burns, and when he looks at it, he sees a scar wink at him and disappear. 

"Hey."

Dean blinks. "Yeah."

"It's taking longer to wake you up," Sam says, his jaw clenching. 

It shouldn't - that dream was only moments, and Dean says as much.

Sam stares at him, unblinking. "Well, it wasn't," he says blankly. He looks like he wants to continue, but instead: "Think we've got something. Well, it's not a lot. May not be anything at all."

Dean struggles to keep his eyes open. "Yeah?"

"A banishing spell," Sam says, setting Dad's journal on Dean's lap. Dean can't remember the last time he saw it, and he thinks about it buried in the Impala, perhaps under the passenger seat with only burger wrappers and old napkins for company. Wonders what Dad's reaction would be if he found out his sacred journal was left for dead.

"Dean?"

Dean shakes it off. "Banishing spell, right. Okay." He squints, trying to make out Dad's writing. "How does it work? Do we need a sigil? Goat's blood? The rib of a boar?"

A rueful smile plays on Sam's lips. "It's a pretty simple spell, actually," he says. "Problem is, you need to do it in person. You'll have to figure out a way to get him here."

Dean lets his gaze drift over to Bobby, who's leaning against the doorway. Bobby stares stonily back, mouth clamped closed.

"'S is fucking nuts, Sam," Dean says as he scans the spell. "This is for Joe the Plumber, not an ex-angel with who knows how many souls bouncing around inside him."

Sam raises his chin, as if the challenge to the weakness of the spell is a personal insult. "It's all I could find, okay? If you can think of a better solution, I'm all for it."

"Okay, calm down," Dean raises his hands up in surrender. "I'm just saying -"

"Don't tell me to calm down," Sam breathes out through his nose.

"Sam," Bobby says quietly, and Sam flinches.

"Yeah," he mutters. "Sorry."

Dean looks back and forth between them, bewildered. "What's going on?"

Bobby averts his eyes, so Dean turns back to Sam. "Come on, man. What's the deal?"

"Besides the obvious?" Sam huffs a laugh. "Look, we can talk about it later. We gotta figure this out now."

Dean eyes him warily; Sam looks resolute, determined: but Dean knows him, knows him better than anyone, and he can see the defeat lingering under the surface. "All right, I'll try it. Sam? I'll try it."

Sam's sigh is soft but audible. "I'm not saying it's going to work - I don't think it's going to work - but. I need him here. Maybe - maybe between the three of us, we can work it out. Maybe now that Cas has, I dunno, calmed down, gotten used to it, he would be more open to reason."

"Yeah? How do you plan on reasoning with him? I think we're beyond that, man."

"I don't know," Sam says, his fingers twitching slightly. Sam's tic for lying. "But I've been there. In a way. Maybe I can appeal to him. Let him see my mistakes, you know?"

Dean realizes that despite everything, Sam holds that last trace of innocence, the hope that anyone can be brought back if there's enough faith. Dean sighs.

"If I'm gonna play the part, I may as well go full-on method. Let me memorize it," Dean says, eyes falling back on the page, but he can feel Sam's smile of appreciation. 

He manages two read-throughs before his eyes drift closed again, Sam's muffled curse ringing in his ears.

_Dean's alone._

He can hear a baby crying in the next room, but when he runs in, the crib is empty. He frowns. Maybe Mom's feeding him. Sammy eats a lot. 

"Where's Mom?"

Daddy turns a page of the paper. There's a picture of a man holding a sign on the front. "She's not here."

"But where?"

"She went shopping," Daddy squints at the paper. "Go on and play, now."

Dean scrunches up his nose. "I wanna play with Sammy. She took Sammy?"

"Yeah, bud." Daddy's face looks funny but he finally smiles and puts down the paper. "Come on, bring those Legos over here and we'll see if we can build something."

Dean's tub of Legos sits in the corner, properly cleaned up after each use. Mom likes to keep things looking nice. Dean tries but he forgets. Sometimes there are cookies and he wants to eat those instead of cleaning. Cookies are good. Especially Mom's cookies.

Daddy tips the tub over and the Legos spill out all over the carpet. Dean thinks that Daddy likes doing that as much as Dean does.

Daddy picks up one of the Lego men and sticks a pirate hat on him. "Argh, matey," he growls. "Yus gonna wank the plank for that one."

Dean doesn't know what that means but it sounds bad. He picks up his own man and waves it menacingly. "No," he challenges. "You are!"

Daddy's man scoffs. "Don't be ridiculous, argh. Face me like a man!"

"On my ship," Dean's guy spits. "I will fight you!"

A snort. "I see no ship," Dean's opponent says. "We should probably build one, argh?"

Dean giggles and tosses his man aside. "Let's build a ship!"

Daddy sets down his too. "Good idea, bud," he says, and he scoops up some Legos and plops some in Dean's lap. "I'll show you, okay? I make a mean ship."

Dean nods and waits patiently, clipping pieces together whenever Daddy points them out. Daddy's really good at this.

The ship is almost done when Dean hears a car pull in the driveway. "Mom!" he points, and Daddy laughs.

"Yeah, little man. Let her walk in the door before you attack her, okay?"

Dean frowns, because he'd never attack her. He'd never hurt her. Just like she'd never hurt him, he knows it.

Dean hears the rustling of bags, a key jamming in the lock, before the door swings open and Mom's home. She carries Sam in one arm and a few bags in the other; her hair is tucked behind her ears and her cheeks flushed red.

Sammy blows a spit bubble. Dean told Mom that Sammy only does that for him. (Mom kissed his cheek and smiled and said that he sure did.)

"What did you get?" Daddy asks, adding a flag to the top of the ship. It has a skull on it.

"Food," Mom smiles and sets Sammy down on his blanket. He picks up his toy and starts chewing on it. "And Libby just had her baby, so I picked up some embroidery. I want to stitch her a little something." She swings Dean on her hip. "You wanna help me?"

"He shouldn't be touching a needle," Daddy says, his eyebrows narrowed. Dean's hand twitches.

Mom stares at him. "I realize that, John. He can help me pick which picture I should use. Can't you, sweetheart?"

Daddy turns away and picks up their ship, setting it on the coffee table.

"Although," Mom whispers. "If you're good, I'll let you hold the needle, okay? We gotta be careful, though, I don't want you to get hurt."

Things go fuzzy after that - he can still feel Mom holding him, can still sense that she's whispering but he can't understand her, but he should get down, find Sammy, is Sammy okay? It sounds like he's crying - Dean should take care of him, Sammy likes him and Dean likes that, even though Sammy's spit is gross. There's a sudden clamor of voices and someone lifts him away from Mom and no, wait -

"- stop fighting me, Dean. It's fine, _stop_ \- it's me, see?"

Two fingers tap his forehead, and Dean stills.

"You're fine. It's fine."

"Jesus," Dean mutters. He pries his eyes open and Cas helps him sit up.

"Dean?" Cas says, a million questions packed into one word, and Dean just nods. It's answer enough for Cas, and he sinks down next to him, shoulder to shoulder.

"That didn't seem like such a bad dream. With your family." Cas pauses. "Your mother. She appears cordial."

 _Cordial._ Dean shrugs, lifting Cas's shoulder with the motion. "It wasn't, I guess. Was just - weird."

"A lot of things are weird."

Dean barks out a laugh. "Yeah." He rolls his head and pushes his mother out of his head. "So, Sam found a banishing spell."

"Banishing spell?" Cas says doubtfully. "I don't know, Dean - "

"It's not really about the banishing spell," Dean says. "Not really. Sam thinks - thinks he can be reasoned with."

Cas's gaze is sharp. "Reasoned with? No, he can't be. He's too strong for you, any of you. Dean, he'll kill you."

"What other choice is there?" Dean says. "We don't do it, we probably die. We do it, we probably die, but there's at least a shot of - I don't know, something. I can't just sit here anymore. I can't listen to his bullshit anymore." Dean blinks, suddenly tired, letting his weight rest against Cas. "I don't know where my head is at, Cas. It's getting harder to remember."

"Remember what?"

"You, I guess. Sam. Anyone. It's like all I got left is him, you know? And I can't wait until it's all I got left. I have to do something."

Cas is quiet for a long time, but Dean's okay with that. He lets his eyes drift up the ceiling: the ceiling fan moves slower with each spin, its movements mesmerizing. 

"All right."

Dean starts. "All right?"

"Bring him to you. Try the spell, and when he's distracted I will do my best to take back control. I'm almost there. I just need a little more time."

Dean looks at the door; it looks weakened, cracked. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. But how am I supposed to get him to come to me?"

Cas's hand is cool and clammy on Dean's face. He looks sad. "Tell him you're ready to serve him."

Dean wakes up to arguing voices drifting through the walls: Sam's, low and determined, Bobby's full of disbelief.

Cas's touch lingers on his lips. The thought of getting him back is enough to keep Dean's head up and his mind alert. He pries himself off the couch, groaning as his back protests. He wonders how long he was sleeping this time. 

The light is on in the other room, so Dean stumbles over and raps on the doorway. Bobby's elbows are on his desk, on hand flat on the surface while the other clings to his own bottle of Johnny Walker. Dean's eyes track it immediately and he has to swallow down the urge to take it, just one sip, one little sip. One sip can't hurt. Bobby stands up so quickly that some papers whoosh off his desk.

"Shit," he says. "You okay?"

"Sam?" Dean asks instead. He hears a rustle and notices Sam untangle his legs from his position on the floor, somehow looking even more exhausted before. Sam's grin is weak but relieved.

"God, Dean," Sam says. "You've been asleep longer each time, I -" he stops, shaking his head. "You should hurry in case it happens again. Should you - should you just pray?"

Dean looks at Bobby for some sort of confirmation. Bobby nods, an unsteady jerk of the head. Dean takes a breath. Isn't sure what exactly to ask for, so all he can think is _I'm ready._

He expects a shattered window, a light flickering, a rush of wind. There's only silence and a brief change in gravity. Then: "Open your eyes."

Dean hadn't realized they had closed all on their own. Protection, maybe. Denial? More likely. This isn't a dream, for once. 

The croak of a wheel as it spins idly. Those razor blades colliding in cruel parody of a wind chime. A voice, one octave off in the wrong direction. "You look so frightened."

Bobby, strong and steady. "It's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"No," Castiel's voice reverberates, and this is what Dean expected to hear. "You still lack the respect I seek. I don't think you will ever have it. Let's not waste either of our time and take care of this straight away."

"No," Dean bursts out. "Wait, man. Don't."

"All right. Because you said so," Castiel says, sounding amused, and Dean finally opens his eyes. "Let's all just do what Dean says, shall we? He clearly believes he knows best."

Dean ignores him. "Look, we want to talk. That's all." In the corner of his eye, he can see Sam nod. "Okay? That's it. We can talk without smiting, can't we?"

Dean looks for any sign, any wavering under the surface - _come on, Cas, I need something_ \- but Castiel only smiles. Dean swallows down the spell. Not yet.

"All right. Come here."

Sam blinks at the speed of the acceptance but shakes his head. "He's not moving."

Castiel's gaze lingers over Sam for a moment. "You want to be in charge now?"

"Sam," Dean mutters, keeping still. They're the gunpowder near a hydrogen bomb. "Don't."  
Sam tightens his mouth but stops, hands curling into fists. Bobby stands by his desk, body coiled. Castiel turns away from them.

"Come here," he repeats. 

Dean takes a step back, watching him warily. "Why?"

Castiel looks amused. "I'm not going to hurt you. You want to talk? _Come here._ " 

If Sam keeps shaking his head so quickly it's gonna pop right off its axis. Dean holds out a hand and takes a few steps, running over the first few lines of the spell in his head.

_Come on, Cas. Come on._

Castiel's smile falters and his face twitches. "Wait -" he starts to croak, and encouraged, Dean finishes off the distance between them - he's turned around, Castiel's chin sits on Dean's shoulder, his breath tickling Dean's ear. Sam makes a noise of disbelief behind them. "You ready?"

Before Dean can answer, everything falls away.

Cold hits him so quickly it takes his breath away. On his knees, he feels snow under his palms, hears the creak of a swing. Opens his eyes: trees all around, leaves clumped together at the trunk, limp and brown, slowly being swallowed by snow.

A lonely see-saw, rust creeping along the seats.

"It's not as beautiful as you remember, is it?"

Dean's eyes drift to a picnic table, rotting from the inside. It's barely standing, but Dean still smells the hamburgers that Daddy - Dad - had made over the grill, still tastes the sweet cherries from Mom's pie. "Bet you had something to do with that," he mutters.

Castiel laughs. "You wish to blame everything that goes wrong on me. I'm sorry, Dean. Sometimes things just go to hell on their own."

The wind cries all around him, carrying Jake's call for his mother, Trevor's hitching breaths. 

_It'll be all right, baby. You can end this. Go on._

Dean inhales. " _Jam tibi_ -"

"Uh uh."

A hand over Dean's mouth, the words pulled out of his lips. A whisper, so quiet that it's nearly carried away (" _this_ is what you used? this elementary spell? Oh, Dean") and Dean loses track, banishing spell slips away, all he can think about now is -

He falls.

It's different this time. The last time, it was silent; all he could hear was his heart screaming in his chest (and isn't that strange that it remained with him even after it stopped beating, after the hell hounds tore him to shreds. How much time has passed? Is Sam burning him by now?). He wanted to refuse thinking about what awaited him, wondering if whatever his mind came up with would be worse than the actuality. The walls around him simply watched, holding their breath in anticipation.

[what happens when he lands?

And when he lands -

when he lands -]

Now, there are murmurs all around him. Touches, soft and gentle. A hand brushing his forehead, a coo in his ear. A song, slightly off-key, but beautiful all the same. He's held on someone's lap, and he smells perfume: hints of vanilla, and Dean instinctively turns his head and moves closer.

A voice soothingly tells him to lean his head back, and hands cup the side of his face, keeping him steady.

Another voice. "I told you, but you didn't listen. I'm truly sorry it had to come to this, I know what this means to you. I'm sorry I have to take it away, but you just won't stop."

Fingers over his lips. The voice returns to the soothing pitch. "It'll be all right, love. Remember? Like last time. We can count, okay?"

A sting on his bottom lip. He jerks but he's restrained. A kiss to his forehead.

"Be still, now. One, two -" 

He's not cold anymore; the arms holding him steady radiate heat, fingertips drift across his neck. He tries to lick his lips to chase away the dryness but he's softly rebuked.

"There we go. In and out. Nice and tight. Oh, I'm sorry, baby. I know it hurts. Stay still. You're so brave."

His mother (because who else could it be, with that voice, that scent) hums under her breath as Dean tries to turn his head away. Another tug on his mouth - another, another, another - until it stops.

"All done. You did so well. My tough baby boy. I love the picture you chose. It suits you just right. I'm sorry I couldn't let you hold the needle this time, but I needed to make sure it was perfect."

He wants to ask _why_ and _what are you doing_ but he's too tired.

More tugging. Fingers trailing along the outside of his lips. A hand pressed against his mouth. Soft palm, smooth. Gentle. There's a sound that's almost like a sob. "Now, be my good boy and do what he says, all right?"

Dean blinks awake.

He feels as if an anvil is sitting on his chest, as if he's on the rack again and all his limbs are being pulled to their capacity. It takes all of his effort to keep his eyes open after each blink. Tries to sit up, but all he can manage is a twitch.

"What –" he attempts to ask, but he can't move his mouth. It hurts, and he groans low in his throat. His mouth is sore, achy - it throbs. He touches it lightly.

Zig zags across his lips. What the –

"You tried to banish me," Castiel says, shaking his head in mock disapproval. "Not like it would do you any good. Your little spell was adorable. It would have tickled, no doubt." He kneels down. "But you lied to me. You looked me right in the eye and lied. That's unacceptable."

Dean grunts out what he hopes sounds like a laugh. 

Castiel shakes his head. "I couldn't trust you. I need you to see what life would be like without me. Do you know what my Father used to say hell really was?"

No. He already knows what hell is, thanks.

"He used to say that hell was separation from Him. When people realized it was too late, that He existed, that they should have believed in Him. It was all over. Did you think that, Dean? Did you believe in God when you were cast down?"

No.

"You didn't want to. You didn't want to believe that a God could exist who let these things happen to you. But He does, and He did. But I won't let anything bad happen to you, Dean. Not as long as I'm around."

Dean flinches; he doesn't miss the point. He breathes heavily through his stitches.

"I've been too lenient with you. You need to understand the consequences of your actions. I thought it was appropriate - you just wouldn't stop. Perhaps taking your tongue would have been easier, but I like a more hands-on approach." Castiel traces a cheek, leaching heat from his skin. Dean tries to summon a glare, but judging by the amused smile on Castiel's face, he fails.

"I think this will be enough for you to see. You talk a lot, you know. It's a flaw that I need to purge from you. You talk so much because you can't bear to be alone in that head of yours. Now, this is all you have." He raps on the top of Dean's head. Taps his nose. " _All_ you have."

Castiel's breath is on his lips, blowing through each seam. "I rather like you like this. Quiet. You know, they kept telling me how special you were. How you were going to save the world. But you know what? You're nothing without me. You have no idea how lucky you are – I could feed you to the dogs. You know how they treat their pets."

Dean grits his teeth but regrets the motion; pain sings along his jawline.

"I won't treat you like that." A hand through his hair – rough knuckles kneading his scalp. "What else do you have to go back to? A broken brother? That one friend you've got left? No, your brother is a lost cause. Too bad. You're broken too, but I can fix you, see? _Why would you want to go back?_ "

Sam. Sam's eyes, his worn expression, his twitching limbs during sleep. Sam, who may finally be beyond Dean's help.

"Perhaps you'll think about what a privilege it would be. What a privilege it would be to serve me, to speak of my glory. If not, you will be judged along with the rest of them. If not, I'll leave you here, a mute with only his thoughts for company."

_A baby crying. It's okay. It's all right, Sammy._

_"He's not talking, Mike. He hasn't talked since. What do I do? What do I -"_

_"Give him time. He'll talk when he's ready."_

_Dean's ready, but nothing he wants to say will make it go away._

"I'll give you twenty four hours. You just sit here and wait for me to come back. We'll talk then, if you're ready."

Sit here. Not like Castiel gave him any other choice; he's frozen in place.

A voice, a voice over his shoulder, right in his ear. "You sit here and pray for me to come back. You better hope I answer, boy."

He lays in cold. Snowflakes kiss his skin, wet his hair. They say that Lucifer was frozen in ice at the center of hell. At year seventeen, Alastair cut out Dean's tongue and let him hang there, breathing cold puffs of air, eyelids frozen open. Cracked lips, unused for the next two years. By the end, they splinter and slide away like shucked corn. He watched the shards glitter and shine on the floor, winking as they melt.

For a moment, he thinks that's it. They'll be gone, and all he'll be able to spit out are guttural groans and drool all over himself. But then Alastair comes back - _I'll show you mercy, boy_ \- and by the time his tongue and lips are finally back (finally finally finally), and he screams and screams and speaks nonsensical words, speaks Latin, every word and name and number that comes to mind until his voice goes hoarse, until it falls away, but he keeps going anyway. Expels air and mouths the words instead.

But today? _Today_ may be it.

He lays in cold.

Dean zones out for a while. He wishes for his mother, for Sam. Bobby. He wonders if where they are, if they're waiting, what they're thinking.

He closes his eyes.

_Aren't you ready, baby? Aren't you ready to give it all up? You've carried it for so long; you can't do it much longer. You're going to fall, and that'll be it. Nobody will be able to help you. Serve him, sweetheart. He'll take care of you, and Sam will be all right. He'll be able to heal. As long as he sees you, looks at you, he'll never be able to forget. And isn't that what you want?_

_Give in for once. Let it all go. He's the only one who will be able to keep you upright. You can end this right here._

"If I unsew your lips, will you behave, Dean? Will you at last show me some respect?"

Dean doesn't hear footsteps (even the ground shies away from Castiel's touch), but Castiel's voice is right behind him, as if Castiel never left at all. 

Maybe he didn't.

Dean keeps his eyes closed; mumbles. He doesn't know what he says, doesn't think he wants to know.

"I take that as a yes. There there...now we can talk."

When Alastair give Dean his mouth back, it grew. Slowly. It took days, rebuilding piece by piece, and this was worse than the pain, worse than anything, because Alastair was anything but impatient. His smile was blinding, and sometimes he halted progress just because.

Castiel removes the thread with a touch to the forehead, one smooth, painless motion. The conflicting sensations is enough to make him want to scream, to spit on Castiel's feet, but he stills. He can't do this again.

Castiel speaks. "Dean."

Dean tightens his lips.

" _Dean._ "

At first, it seems like that's all Castiel can say, his name. Over and over, until the word becomes unrecognizable, just meaningless syllables.

Then: "My child."

"I'm not your child," Dean snaps, but quiets when Castiel narrows his eyes. Dean looks down at the ground, counts the snowflakes falling gingerly upon Castiel's shoes, as if they know not to bring attention to themselves.

"I know you're still in there," Dean says, more carefully this time. "Cas. I know you can -"

"Is he?" Castiel says, and his voice is so light, so amused, that Dean looks up again.

Castiel kneels down by Dean's side, smile still lingering on his lips. Takes off his trench coat, loosens his tie. Musses up his hair. His eyes turn sad, glassy. "Dean," he says in that broken voice. "Dean, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. I promise I'll get you out of this."

Dean stares.

Castiel slips off Cas's face with practiced ease. Now, Dean sees his mother in those eyes: soft, loving. 

"I thought it would be an amusing experiment. You responded quite positively to him. But I'm sorry to tell you, it's just you and me in here." He lays a hand on the side of Dean's neck, thumb resting on his jugular. "The intimacy was nice. I understand why my Father wanted it from you humans. I know you enjoyed it, too. Tell you what. I'll give you your Castiel back once a week. I'll play your Cas. Will that make you feel better?"

The cold makes itself noticeable again, frost creeping along Dean's bones. He wants to believe, needs to believe his lips are still sewn shut because the words don't come. They can't come.

They may never come again. There's nothing left; he's empty. Dean tilts his head, waits for a jab to the bicep, a sign, _something_. Sam. Sam sam sam.

But this is no dream. Not anymore.

"Did you think your subconscious was trying to protect you? By channeling your mother, your Cas, and that I could only just bleed through? I'm sorry, baby. Are you ready now? 

_Don't you want to be with me?"_


End file.
